Melding of the Minds
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Mind Over Matter, #3. *Oliver gets in trouble and Felicity saves his hide. Again.* A continuation of the Mind Over Matter universe, this time with 75% more Tommy. Complete.
**Title: Melding of the Minds
Word Count: 7700**

 **Notes:** Hey, guys! It's been two weeks, and I miss you already. It's been fun working on the Olicity Fic Bang stuff (shout-out to my amazing beta, leviosaphoenix), but I had trouble with it last night and so I went to something else. This happened to be it.

I hope you guys are okay with some more Mind Over Matter. ;) I'll admit I had a little too much fun with this. Especially an odd exchange you'll notice at some point. I hope you guys enjoy it, too. Thanks for being epic. Comments are loved and appreciated, but I'm just really glad to know you guys are reading it. :) Thank you!

* * *

As much as Felicity Smoak loves her boys—her charming, selfless, heroic boys who defend the city by night—she can't help but hate them both a little right now.

Of course it's coming from a place of panic, but she doesn't have the luxury of being rational. Oliver _told_ her he wasn't going to put on the hood tonight. He _knew_ she was working late, and she made him promise not to go into the field. They've had too many close calls recently for that—first the fire at Verdant, then the Count trying to make him overdose, and then Vanch had his grubby, villainous paws all over Felicity. (She shudders at that one.) So of _course_ he then proceeds to call her at ten o'clock, managing the words, "Felicity, your car. Now," in a weak voice before the line goes dead.

And, while it would be difficult making the walk down to her car, not knowing if he was dead or alive, it would be _infinitely_ better if Diggle was answering his damn cell phone tonight. Because John Diggle would be absolutely sure of what to do, and he would push back her growing fears with a calm, decisive voice. He'd tell her whether to take Oliver to the hospital or the lair and just how to patch him up. While she's sewed Oliver up a few times on her own, her medical knowledge is thoroughly lacking, and John would be sure to help her through it.

But, as it is, both of her boys are out of commission, and Felicity feels utterly alone in this one moment.

She sprints across the garage to her car, looking through the windows to find him draped across the back seat with his eyes closed and his identity firmly revealed for the world to see and a blood stain that screams "not good" with neon letters and a flashing sign. In a panic, she throws open the back door, reaching across the seat with shaking fingers to his throat, where she checks for a pulse. At first she freezes when there's nothing, but finally something weak comes through.

With renewed conviction, she pulls the hood over his face better, not caring as her fingers slide over the grease paint on his eyes. Honestly, Felicity has no idea what to do, but she _does_ know that she can't take him to the hospital—not like this. The cops would be all over this. That leaves her only the lair, so she scrambles into the driver's seat with a new determination.

"I don't know if you can hear me or not," she starts, mostly for her own comfort, "but, Oliver Queen, you are _not_ allowed to die in the back seat of my car. You will _not_ like it if you do. I will personally put in a word with the higher powers that be and force you to haunt my kitchen cabinets until the day I die. You've seen me cook—you know how bad that would be."

There isn't an answer, but she doesn't really expect one, either.

In what feels like way too long—and not long enough, according to her speedometer—Felicity makes it back to the lair, and with that comes the realization of her next challenge, that she has absolutely no way to move him on her own. Frustrated, she calls Diggle again, this time leaving a message: "Digg, it's Felicity. Sorry to call you so late, but, well, we have a code red. Literally. Lots of red everywhere. As soon as you get this, call me and make a break for the lair. I'm going to need all the help I can get with our boy."

She's just about to break down when she sees the other car in the lot. It's crazy and Oliver is _so_ going to yell at her later in his scary Arrow voice, but, well, she'd like him to be alive to do that. For the time being, she scrambles out of the car and finds one of her blankets out of the back. Because the now-unconscious vigilante insists upon her safety to sometimes ludicrous levels, she remembers the knife in the glove box and thanks him under her breath for being such a pain in the ass. This time, it might just save his life.

Once she has the blanket in smaller pieces, she unzips his jacket slightly and shoves the strips down into the wound, packing them tight before zipping the jacket over them. For the moment, that will hold pressure—after all, she can't be in two places at once. After she's sure that he's as situated as he can be in the situation, Felicity turns on her heel and marches toward the front doors of Verdant.

Thankfully, Tommy is sitting at the bar when she arrives. "I need your help," she declares to the billionaire, and his eyes widen as he looks at her. Felicity can only imagine the scene she's making; her hair is falling down, her shirt is rumpled, and she's fairly certain that's a bloodstain on her shirt. Not to mention the green grease paint smeared on her coat and down her right hand. Absently, she notes that her coat is probably ruined. That's okay, though; she can buy another one.

But she sure as hell can't replace Oliver.

Slowly he moves away from the pile of papers. "What happened?" Tommy asks immediately. "That looks like blood. Are you hurt? What do you need me to do?"

"Long story," she answers tersely as she motions for him to follow her toward the back of the club. He's on her heels with three long strides. "Right now, I need you to do what I say and keep your questions to a minimum. I promise to answer them all later, but right now, I don't have time to explain."

Ducking into Oliver's office, she moves to the massive, red-handled switch sticking out of the wall, flipping it up. "That doesn't do anything, Felicity," Tommy says to her, but she ignores it. The blonde is more than aware of what it does; she's the one who wired it. Instead, she focuses her attention on the breaker box on the far wall, opening it to expose the keypad. "This is Oliver's office—how did you—?" He breaks off as he watches her punch in the code of the week, a panel coming loose from the wall. "Felicity, what the hell is this?"

"No time to explain, _Thomas_ ," she reiterates, knowing that her use of his full name will shut him up. Sure enough, it does, and he just follows her to the start of the basement stairs. The lights are off—Oliver must have switched them off before leaving—but that's not a problem for her. "Stay there," she instructs. "I'll switch the lights on." She knows these stairs, this basement, better than her own home, and Felicity has no trouble navigating in the dark.

After groping along the wall for a moment, she finally finds the switch. It's old and a little rusty, but she finally manages to throw it up. Felicity has to squint against the fluorescent lighting for a moment, but her eyes then fix on what she needs. "Tommy, I need you to help me wheel this gurney upstairs."

While he bounds down the stairs quickly enough, she stops him before he can start rolling it toward the door. She doesn't have much time, but Felicity can _make_ time for this. "I know it's going to be hard, Tommy, but I need you to trust me tonight. I'm going to need all the help I can get. You're going to have questions, and I promise you I'll answer everything after it calms down. But no matter what you see, I need to know I can trust _you_ to keep a secret. It's important—not just for me, but for a lot of people."

Indecision flicks across Tommy's face as he probably starts to realize she wouldn't ask him this over just anything. Felicity is tempted to just pull off Oliver's hood and show the Merlyn heir that his best friend is the Arrow, but the only thing that keeps her from doing so is the promise she made to him in this very space, standing just a few feet away. He made her promise that she wouldn't tell his family under any circumstances—other than his death. He didn't want to deal with this, and, for now, she respects that.

Tommy Merlyn may not be Oliver's blood kin, but he is most certainly his family.

The answer is slow, but, finally it comes. "Whatever is going on, Felicity," he answers slowly, "I'll keep it a secret." He offers her a small smile, probably seeing the panic she's trying so hard to keep at bay so she can save him. "I have a feeling Oliver would kick my ass if I did anything that caused trouble for you."

He doesn't even know the half of it, Felicity can't help but think, but yet he's managed to come to the right conclusion. She thinks about what happened to Cyrus Vanch, and she thinks that Oliver would only be slightly more merciful with his best friend. "That's a good instinct," Felicity answers seriously as she grabs the gurney. "Trust it and take it to heart."

As they push it up the stairs, Tommy finally asks, "So, why do we need this thing again?" He grunts against it, pushing it upward. "And don't tell me this is about new computers for the club because we both know it's not."

Felicity pulls toward her with an ache in her muscles. "First of all, I don't lie to you, Tommy," she answers with clenched teeth as her arms start to feel like jelly. "Sometimes I mislead you and let you draw the wrong conclusions, but I'd never outright lie to you about anything. I'm no good at it." A chuckle leaves her, even though this is neither the time or the place. "Oliver's excuses are absolutely horrible, and you only need _one_ bad liar as a friend."

They force the metal table slowly up another stair, and Felicity swears that, if they live through this, she's insisting upon an elevator. "And we need the gurney because I'm pretty sure we won't be able to carry him all the way down here by ourselves." Finally it goes over the last stair. "I don't have much upper body strength, and, no offense, but you look like you've missed a few arm days at the gym, too."

Tommy huffs indignantly at that, but she rolls the gurney through the club floor of Verdant as fast as she can, at a dead run. Tommy follows shortly behind to the car, but she's kind of glad for his lack of hurry; it gives her time to make sure the hood is over Oliver's head and his identity is intact. Then Felicity runs around to open the other car door so that she can help push him out. "Take his legs and try to hoist him onto the gurney."

Honestly, Felicity shouldn't expect him to follow along so easily, but she does. So of course she's surprised when Tommy doesn't start lifting the unconscious vigilante in her back seat. "This is the _Hood_ , Felicity," he says in a quiet voice, studying her in confusion. Then he shakes his head, as if to clear it. "And, either way, with a wound like that, he should be at a hospital, not a nightclub."

"If we take him to a hospital, he's going to jail," she states in a firm tone. Which would be more than fine with Felicity—because at least he'd be alive—but he made her promise that if it came to that, she'd let him die rather than go to jail. _I've spent too many years in cages, Felicity,_ she remembers him saying so clearly. _I didn't survive the last five years just to end up in another one._ Of course she'd caved when he said that—what kind of heartless person would she be if she didn't? "He doesn't deserve that, Tommy."

Already she can tell he's starting to cave, the fight draining out of his expression. "Felicity," he starts slowly, "you don't have to do this for him." Her eyebrows narrow together in confusion; there isn't a world where she can imagine leaving him to die. "You don't have to repay him because he saved you last week."

Only then does she realize what he thinks this is. "I'm not returning the favor, Tommy," she answers, looking at him from over her glasses. Felicity licks her lips, realizing what she's about to reveal to him. "If anything, _he_ was repaying _me_. When your favorite hacker gets kidnapped by a sociopath with a vendetta, the least you can do is go rescue her."

He gapes at her for a moment, but it's enough to make him start pulling Oliver's limp body forward. Between grunts, he asks, "You work for the Vigilante?"

"You have the right idea," Felicity answers, trying to slide Oliver toward Tommy, "but the wrong preposition. I work _with_ him, not _for_ him. I'm his partner, not his employee." The billionaire stares at her with new appraisal, a new evaluation of her.

"He's a criminal, Felicity. He—" Tommy starts to argue, but the blonde is _so_ not in the mood for this.

"He _what_ , Tommy?" she snaps back, interrupting him. "He saved your life when you were kidnapped? He saved your girlfriend's life when she was caught in that prison riot? He hasn't dropped a single body since he started this—which is more than you could say for the police?" Her anger turns into a shove, pushing Oliver further toward Tommy. Too late she realizes it probably isn't going to help his shoulder. "Sorry," she murmurs to him, even though she knows he can't hear her. It's more for her comfort than his, anyway. "Don't tell me he's not a hero because you don't know him." Well, he _does_ , but that isn't something she can share in the moment. "If anyone has a valid opinion of him, it's me."

It's quiet as they move him onto the gurney, but she thinks she might have gotten through to Tommy. His mouth is still set into a grim line, but at least he isn't trying to argue with her now. Which is good because he's not going to convince her she's wrong, not when she knows Oliver Queen.

Which leads to a thought that makes her groan as she voices it. "And he's probably going to yell and punch dummies and flip tables when he realizes I dragged you into this," Felicity appends to the previous thought. The last time he'd been pissed, he nearly destroyed the computers with the impressive flip of that wooden table, which had in turn pissed her off, too. And when they're _both_ mad, it usually ends with them yelling in each other's faces. Not exactly her idea of a good time.

"If he's such an ass," Tommy asks as he opens the front doors to pull the gurney through, "then why are you trying to save him?" There's no malice in it, just idle curiosity to his tone. As if anyone helping someone for altruistic reasons is beyond him. She finds that a little sad.

To Felicity, the answer is simple: because, while Oliver Queen might occasionally be an ass, he's _her_ ass, and somehow she's managed to become emotionally invested in the biggest risk-taker in Starling City. At first it startles her when she doesn't blurt it out, but then she realizes that Oliver's presence has had a nice effect on her mostly absent filter. Sometimes when they're in the lair, she doesn't bother to even speak; there's really no point when the two of them don't have to go through motions. It's almost peaceful, actually.

After she realizes she hasn't spoken, she answers firmly, "Because he's my best friend." The sentiment feels odd on her tongue; she isn't sure how she'd describe her relationship with Oliver, but it sure as hell isn't anything as simple as friendship. At this point, with all the glances and stares, she isn't even sure it's platonic anymore.

God, she needs Oliver back _yesterday_. She's not brave enough to think things like that when he's around, and it's better for her that way.

They wheel him through the club to the back office, and, surprisingly, the gurney goes down the stairs with more ease than they had going up them. Still, Tommy is sweating by the time they finish. "God, he's heavy," he complains. "Seriously, he could afford to drop a few pounds."

"So _you_ say," Felicity mutters absently in answer. Her thoughts are more focused on doing what she can to help him, shrugging out of her coat and letting it drop to the floor before going to the toolbox that functions as their medical supply kit. "He might be a little heavy to carry, but trust me, every inch of him is pure muscle."

Only when Tommy chokes does she realize what she's said. "That I've seen," she clarifies. "We're not—" Her hands flail between her and the masked man on the gurney before she realizes Tommy can't understand her thoughts the way Oliver does. Never thought she'd miss _that_ invasion of privacy. "When he's down here, he's usually training. And when he's training, he doesn't wear a shirt. I didn't mean that in a sex way." She turns, glaring at the vigilante. "See? You're unconscious and bleeding, and you _still_ make me trip over my tongue."

Realizing that Tommy is still here, she calls over her shoulder. "I have it from here, Tommy," she assures him, though she wishes she felt even _half_ as confident as she sounds. "Thank you for helping me carry him in. If you could, uh, _not_ mention this to anyone with authority, I'd appreciate it. I wouldn't survive a women's prison, and while he would break me out, it would be better for my health if I didn't have to worry about him doing that."

She peels back the jacket to reveal the blood-soaked rags, and, wow, that is _so_ not good. "You sure?" Tommy calls to her. "Because you were right—I kind of owe him one after he helped Laurel. And that looks like a _lot_ of blood."

As much as she'd like to keep her promise to Oliver about keeping his identity a secret, she doesn't have the luxury of keeping promises right now. Not if she wants to keep him alive. Two hands aren't enough to stitch this up, and she has only enough medical knowledge to be dangerous with it. "He's going to use me for target practice for this," Felicity answers slowly, "but I could use some help here, if you can stand the sight of blood." Then she groans. "Actually, worse—he's going to hate me for this." Then she directs the billionaire to the box of nitrile gloves in the corner. "Put some of those on and apply pressure to this wound."

For all his faults, Tommy doesn't even flinch, taking her place holding the pressure with ease. Then he studies her own bloodstained hands. "Are you going to put on gloves, too?" It's more a suggestion than a question, but he's not brave enough to order her around. Which makes Tommy Merlyn an incredibly smart man.

She shrugs, instead pulling down on the zipper of the green jacket, waiting until she unhooks it to go back to the gloves. "Probably a good idea," she admits. "I'd hate to give him some sort of infection to go with being shot." Under other circumstances, she might worry about getting blood-borne diseases, but, well, as often as she's patched him up, that ship has probably sailed. The thought makes her want to apologize for the boat metaphor, but then it dawns on her— _again_ —that she's unfortunately very alone in her head right now.

By the time she finishes, Tommy is staring at the roadmap of scars across the vigilante's torso with a growing expression of horror. It takes her a moment to even realize what has her so upset; Felicity has seen them so many times that she barely notices them. The scars are just a part of Oliver, something she'd include in a description with absolutely no emotion. Six feet tall. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Scars across his chest and back that she could describe to perfect detail—and that one behind his ear that she can feel when she cups his face in her hands. To her, it's just another thing that makes Oliver the person she knows today.

"What happened to him?" Tommy asks in a low voice, as though speaking at a normal volume would break the spell.

"I don't know," she answers truthfully. "My guess is a whole lot of pain and misery. We don't talk about it. And if you so much as _think_ about asking him in his vicinity, he'll go all grr on you." She can't help the soft laugh that accompanies it—Tommy can't fully appreciate the truth in that statement right now. "I'm going to try and get him out of this jacket so I can work on him." She points to him with a blood-covered, blue-gloved finger. "If you breathe a word of his identity to anyone, I will rain digital fire down upon your entire life. I'm talking trust-fund-donated-to-Greenpeace vengeance. Do you understand?"

The billionaire swallows hard, and, under normal circumstances, it would make her laugh to think that someone like _Tommy Merlyn_ was terrified of her. But, for the moment, she has more important things to worry about. He nods seriously with wide eyes, and only then does Felicity move toward the head of the gurney. As gently as she can, she reaches under the hood to cradle Oliver's head in one arm, pulling the hood back with her free hand.

She can hear the slow intake of breath as Tommy realizes just exactly what he's seeing. Before he can say anything, though, Felicity's phone starts ringing, the tone blaring about an angel with a shotgun. Absently, she tosses the phone to Tommy, who somehow manages to catch it. "Answer it and put it on speaker," she directs him. He does, holding it up in the air so she can she it's connected. "I take it you found my voicemail," she greets Diggle.

Digg's voice is unreadable on the other side of the line, but that's really no surprise to her; somehow he manages to keep it together even in the worst of situations. "I was with Carly and A.J. How's our boy?" he asks, answering her statement without really answering it—in true John Diggle fashion.

"Not good," she answers truthfully, examining the wound. "He's still breathing, thank God, but it's not pretty. It hit through his shoulder." Then she notices the slow leak that pools at the same time as his pulse. "It nicked an artery, Digg. I don't know which one, but it's big and it's leaking pretty steady."

"I'm ten minutes out," he answers in a grim voice that sounds pretty much the same way Felicity feels at the moment. "From what you've said, he can't wait that long. You remember when I taught you how to ligate blood vessels?"

She motions to Tommy to put pressure back on the wound as she dives for a pack of suture. "Unlike the third member of this team, I actually listen to you, John," the blonde replies. "I just remove the bullet and then I…" The terminology feels weird in her mouth—at no point did she want to go to medical school. A dental hygenist? Sure, but never medical school. "…Ligate it, right? And then sew it up?"

"As long as nothing else major is bleeding," he answers, "you're good to sew him back up. Make sure you connect that heart monitor." He hesitates, and that always makes Felicity a little nervous. If Diggle is hesitating, then his next words aren't going to be good. "The defibrillator is in the bottom drawer if you need it—just in case. Next to it, there's a syringe labeled 'atropine.' If his heart rate drops, give him some of that. Dose is marked on the syringe."

Felicity takes a deep breath because she can do this. She can _totally_ do this. And maybe if she repeats that enough, she'll believe it. "Did I mention you're my favorite, John?" she asks him, mostly to relieve some of her own tension as she pulls over the heart monitor. "Because you are. You don't get shot in the chest or go out on missions without letting anyone know. If this doesn't kill him, I might do it myself."

"As bad as this is," he answers dryly, "just remember that I was the one stuck with him when Vanch held you hostage. At least he isn't pacing and yelling this time."

"Oh, I don't know," she answers quietly as places the electrodes where Diggle taught her. The monitor starts beeping, and while the red display informs her it's low, he at least _has_ a heart rate. "I'd kind of like to see him pacing right now. And yelling. And distracting me from work with the salmon ladder."

As she reaches for the bullet with forceps, Diggle answers, "He's in good hands, Felicity." With that, they say their goodbyes, and Tommy is kind enough to end the call for her before setting the phone on one of the other tables.

She can see the confusion and curiosity on his face, and she knows it's only a matter of time before he asks. Sure enough, it comes. "Was he ever going to tell me?" Tommy asks quietly, wiping at some of the blood with a piece of gauze when she motions to it.

It's a slippery slope of a question with no good answers. "I don't know," Felicity answers finally, winding a piece of suture around her fingers in preparation for tying off the artery. "All I know is that he didn't want you to find out from me, which is how you proceeded to find out. When he wakes up, it's going to be World War Three down here."

"I'll leave before he wakes up," Tommy is kind enough to offer, not realizing the flaw in his plan. "I could act like I didn't know." There's a long pause before he looks at her. "I don't want to cause problems between the two of you." Then he gives a self-conscious shrug as she starts tying off the blood vessel. "You're good for him."

Felicity is already shaking her head by the time he finishes. "There are a lot of flaws to your plan," she answers firmly, "but the most important one is that I _do not_ lie to Oliver." As it is, there's no point in lying to him when he knows it, but she honestly wouldn't anyway. "This team depends on us trusting each other, and we can't do that if we're always lying to one another." Then she chuckles. "And even if I wasn't opposed to the idea, he'd _know_."

Something about her statement makes Tommy roll his eyes. "Ollie isn't psychic, Felicity," he informs her, and the blonde nearly chokes on the laugh she holds back. "I might not know everything about him, but I'm pretty sure he can't tell when someone is lying just by looking at them."

"He isn't psychic," Felicity agrees slowly, "but he's really good at reading people." Mostly because he can read minds, but that's one secret she's determined to keep. "Trust me, people he knows as well as you and me? He'd have us pegged for liars in a heartbeat." She picks up a pair of hemostats to help her, but she uses them to point at Tommy first. "It took me a long time to earn his trust, and I'm not going to throw it away just because I can't handle a little yelling."

They lapse into silence then, Felicity out of concentration and Tommy out of what she assumes must be thought. Her focus goes to the wound instead, dabbing it with gauze to ensure all the major bleeding is taken care of. After she's satisfied, she starts stitching up the actual wound. It takes her several minutes and several layers of suture, but finally it closes.

"I would say we make a good team," Tommy says with a cheeky grin, "but I think you did all the work." The smile falls of his face as he stares at the wound. "You think he's going to wake up soon?" Of course he manages to ask the one question she's been trying not to think about because she's never done anything this extensive before. And then there's the nagging feeling that she has no medical training and she shouldn't be doing this.

She's saved from having to answer because Diggle takes that moment to walk into the lair via the back exit. Immediately she peels off her gloves and tosses them in the trash can, running over to hug him in her relief. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you right now," she declares. "Did I mention you're my favorite? Because you're my favorite." Felicity releases her friend, drawing back. "I patched it, but I'm not sure how well I did. I don't like pass-fail tests, John."

He gestures to the blood smears on her arms and hands. "Why don't I check your work while you go get a shower?" he offers.

She is five hundred kinds of uninterested in that. "I'm not leaving him, John," Felicity asserts in a tone that brooks no argument. No matter how this plays out, she's going to have a front-row seat. Unfortunately, though, that though brings up a new wave of emotion and suddenly she's blinking back tears as she truly, _deeply_ realizes that he might not wake up from this. "If you make me cry, Oliver Queen—" she starts to warn his unconscious form.

"You'll have to take a number," John finishes for her, placing a hand on her shoulder in comfort. "It won't matter what we do to him, though," he continues. "No one is going to beat him up as much as he's going to kick himself." He motions to Tommy as he walks over to Oliver. "He's not going to like this, Felicity."

She knows that just as well as he does, but she has no idea what else she could have done. "He was unconscious in the back of my car," Felicity answers. "I had to get him in here somewhere, and it wasn't happening without some help." She points to herself. "I mean, I'm a genius, Digg, and I might be able to hack into the Pentagon with two hours, a tub of mint chip, and cheapest computer off the assembly line"—Tommy's eyebrows disappear into his hairline at that—"but I have yet to find a way to move Oliver by myself when he has no interest in going anywhere." She scoffs. "If I did, I wouldn't have to wake him up at three a.m. to get his bony hip out of my side. Or worse, when he's snoring in my ear."

Before she can even realize what she said, Tommy starts to ask, "I thought you said you two didn't—?"

John, God bless him, doesn't allow him to finish. "First rule of Team Arrow, man," he says in a long-suffering voice as he pokes at the stitches Felicity put in. "When it comes to Oliver and Felicity? You don't ask." Then he snorts. "You watch from the sidelines until you want to claw your eyes out, go home, and come back to do it all over again."

Tommy scoffs lightly. "Oh, come on," he insists drawing out the words. All Felicity can do is stare; she has no idea what they're talking about. "They can't be _that_ bad." Instead of an answer, he receives a long, unflinching stare from the other man. Then Tommy blows out a loud breath. "They _can't_ be that bad, John," he insists. "How _can_ it be? Felicity told me they're not—"

"They aren't," Diggle cuts in, answering the thought before Tommy can form it fully. Felicity still finds herself lost as a goose in their exchange. "I think it might be better if they _were_."

It takes Tommy a moment to put two and two together this time, but slowly he starts to ask, "So they're not—?"

Again Diggle answers the thought for him. "Nope," he answers with a seemingly infinite amount of patience, still inspecting the wound.

"But she's—?" Tommy starts again.

"Oh, definitely," Diggle assures him with complete confidence.

"And he's—?"

A laugh is the immediate answer, followed shortly by, "So much it hurts to watch."

"But they're not—?"

" _Never_."

" _Even_ though they—?"

"Doesn't matter. They still don't."

"You think he knows how she—?"

"Oh, definitely. That boy doesn't miss much."

"But does she know he—?"

"No way. She notices just about everything _but_ that."

"But Ollie still hasn't tried to—?"

Finally Felicity gets a piece of it: they're talking about something to do with her and Oliver. Even still, that doesn't mean she's following it yet. "Eventually you're going to realize that Oliver spends most of his time making himself miserable over one thing or another," John answers evenly, and Felicity can't help but agree with that thought, despite being unaware of the circumstances around that conclusion. The vigilante is practically the king of self-flagellation. "He tries to fight things that will make him happy because he thinks he doesn't deserve it. This is just one of them."

There's a long pause before finally Tommy asks, "What if I told her that—?"

"Then he'd probably use you for target practice and you'd probably make things worse instead of better," Diggle answers, shutting him down on the spot. "This is one of those things that she'll have to figure out on her own—since he clearly isn't going to do anything about it." He sighs as he drops the forceps down into the cold pack Felicity prepared earlier. "Unfortunately. We could all die waiting for that to happen." Then he extends his hand to Tommy after peeling off the nitrile gloves. "Welcome to the club, man. Wish I could say it gets better, but it doesn't."

Before he can answer, suddenly the machine goes into long, sustained note that makes her blood go cold. Panic claws at her, freezes her in place, but fortunately, it makes Digg charge into action. While she's just staring at the red zero on the machine and the flashing word _asystole_ , he pulls out the defibrillator. It's only then that she manages to bolt into action, calling out in a rush, "Don't forget to say 'clear'!" She's already mentally slapping herself by the time she's by Diggle's side, but there are more important things to worry about now.

Like how the defibrillator doesn't fire.

While emergency medicine isn't her thing, _this_ she can work with. Defibrillator or not, it's still a machine—and Felicity Smoak knows machines better than almost anyone. "I heard the charge," she mostly mutters to herself, "so that means it's working and the short is further in the circuit." Before she can even ask, Diggle has the screwdriver in her hand, and she pries off the cover before reconnecting the wires. "Try now," she calls over her shoulder.

This time, she hears the paddles fire and she breathes a sigh of relief. The panic begins again, though, when the monitor still flashes that red zero. Diggle doesn't need any encouragement to hit him again. Nothing happens for what feels like an eternity, but finally his heart starts beating again.

Because she can't stay upright any longer, Felicity walks over to her desk chair, dropping into it with a weary sigh. At this point, she isn't sure how she's even awake; last night's adventure with Vanch meant she didn't get much sleep, and it's finally starting to catch up with her. Tonight will probably be spent pretty sleepless, too, unless Oliver makes some sort of miraculous recovery. The idea of crawling into her cold bed alone knowing he's injured just isn't very appealing.

"Starting to miss the pacing and yelling yet?" she asks Diggle. Her voice shakes, but no one is rude enough to mention it to her. "I'd take mad Oliver over not-breathing Oliver any day." His hand drops on her shoulder, and then her chair slides over toward the gurney. Felicity could almost kiss the former soldier right now. "I don't know how else to help, John."

"I know," is all he says for a long moment. Needing something to do, Felicity takes Oliver's hand, curling her fingers through his, careful not to move his injured arm too much. "Felicity, he's been through worse and he's still here," John adds, but they both know he can't build up an immunity to bullets. And one is really all it takes, despite what he's survived in the past.

When Felicity doesn't speak, he motions to where she's joined her hand with the vigilante's. "And now he has something to fight _for_."

* * *

Felicity's eyes can hardly open for a moment, but then she realizes she fell asleep in the middle of the chaos, for reasons she can't begin to understand. It takes her a few heartbeats to understand why, but then the shrill noise echoing through the lair explains it for her. "Why did you let me fall asleep, John?!" she yells out of sheer panic.

The noise stops before she can even pull herself out of the chair. "A lead came loose," Diggle assures her as she wipes at her bleary eyes, trying to make sense of the situation. "It was quiet, and I figured you needed the rest." He crosses his arms over his chest. "I wouldn't have let you sleep through anything important." His tone is reproachful, as if he's a little insulted by the subtle accusation. "Tommy had to cut out at five, before Laurel suspected anything happened."

With that, he starts pacing, and Felicity understands why; he needs to do _something_ , even if it isn't helping Oliver. Groggy, she tries to check the time, but realizes that her phone is still in the car. "What time is it?" she asks, rubbing at her face with her free hand.

"Almost eight," John answers, never missing a stride. "At least it's Saturday—you won't have to call in to work." Even now he assumes that Felicity wouldn't leave Oliver like this—correctly, she might add. "He's been peaceful while you were asleep. Twitches every now and again, but nothing like that asystole last night. I think he's going to be fine, Felicity." He offers her a grim smile. "And this time I'm not just trying to make myself believe it."

Felicity doesn't say anything to that because there's nothing else to say. He made it one more night—one more than he probably expected, if the truth was told. It scares her how well Oliver accepts the danger of his situation, almost like he doesn't care if he lives or dies. She doesn't see it as much as when they first started, but it's still there. No doubt he probably did something reckless tonight, which led to his wounds.

The quiet of the lair catches her attention again, and it feels wrong. It's just too quiet—there should be noises in the background. The thumping bass from the club. The sound of Oliver training, whether it's punches to a wooden training dummy or the clanging of the salmon ladder. The quiet clicking of her fingers on the keyboard, accompanied by the buzz of her computers crunching data like no tomorrow.

Perhaps the most unnerving thing, though, is that she's alone in her head. It feels… _strange_ now to be in the same room with Oliver without him commenting on her every thought as though it's spoken aloud. It amazes Felicity how something that was so unnerving has become familiar so fast. But now she has her thoughts to herself, and it makes them dangerous somehow. Then the epiphany comes to her, so pure and simple that it shouldn't be an epiphany at all.

She misses him being awake and in her head.

"So much for an invasion of privacy," a raspy, tired voice answers, and Felicity chokes on a laugh as she squeezes his hand. Oliver's eyes betray his exhaustion, but the hint of a smile on his face makes up for it in her book. In fact, he's still the best thing she's seen all day. The smile grows more pronounced at that and then he murmurs in a quiet voice, "I could say the same to you."

In slow, methodical movements, the vigilante pulls himself into a sitting position, and Felicity is unable to do anything but hover at his side. As he sits on the gurney, he asks John, "Can you pass me my hoodie, please?" Digg is already there, passing it to him with his mouth a grim line. Oliver winces at something in their unspoken conversation.

Remembering her previous ire, Felicity touches his leg gently. "Your leg doesn't hurt, does it?" she asks, her tone betraying nothing, just like her thoughts. It takes him a moment to answer, but after his assurance that it doesn't, she pinches him, earning an _ow_ for her trouble. Any other time, there would be humor in it—the man was just shot in the shoulder, but yet he's complaining because she _pinched_ him—but right now, there's nothing funny about the situation. "I can't believe you went out in the field without your _team_ , Oliver! Isn't that why you wanted to put together a team in the first place? Then you go and pull a stupid stunt like this! What would have happened to you if I hadn't been at QC?" It's not something she wants to think about; somehow, despite the worry and aggravation he causes her, he's grown on her. _Like a fungus_ , she adds in her head, just out of spite.

Somehow the thought only earns her a surprised laugh, contrasting with the rest of his expression. He almost folds under her words, like a child being scolded: his shoulders pull inward and he ducks his head a little. At least he has the decency to act ashamed. "I know that what you do is dangerous," she continues without losing steam, "and I accept that. I knew that when I signed on. But you _minimize_ that risk when you depend on _us_." Felicity motions to herself and John, looking to her partner for support, and he nods once. "John was out of pocket tonight because we weren't working. So when I found you, half- _dead_ —" It only irritates her further when her voice breaks. "I was alone and you were unconscious. If Tommy hadn't been here"—that sparks a cry of protest—"to help me move you, calling me wouldn't have been enough to save you. Instead, you would have died in the back of my car instead of the street." She pinches him again for good measure. "Being a mind reader isn't an excuse for _not thinking_. And if you ever do that to me again, I'm not going to be so nice." Before he can respond, she turns to John. "Do you have anything to add?"

"I'm going to get him later, when I know what I want to say," Diggle says with a dark look at Oliver. Felicity figures he already knows what he wants to say, but that he's wanting to do this man-to-man for some reason. More of that has been happening lately.

"You're right," Oliver interjects with a deep sigh, running a hand over his face. "I'm sorry I scared you, Felicity." From there, he reaches out to take her hand, still slightly covered in his blood. He doesn't seem to mind, though he does stare at it for a long moment. "And thank you." He drops her hand, reaching out for her face this time. While cupping her cheek, he rubs at something with his thumb. "You should go home. Clean yourself up and get some sleep."

She snorts. He isn't getting out of her clutches that easily. Oliver's eyebrows fly up at that, and she rolls her eyes in response. "What, you didn't think you were invited?" Felicity snaps. "It's the only way I trust you not to run off and get shot. _Again_. Or rip your stitches on the salmon ladder. Not that I have anything against the salmon ladder," she adds quickly, for good measure. "For the record, I really _like_ the salmon ladder." The archer chuckles; he's been in her head and he knows _exactly_ how she feels about it. (Which is that it's a gift from God because she has a front-row seat to watch _him_ do _that_ at least once a week.) "But ripping stitches and reinjuring yourself is bad." She motions toward the door. "So come on. I promise I won't even complain about your snoring this time."

Though she knows the response before it comes, the blonde is more than pleased to hear him protest, "Felicity, I don't snore." Sure, and she's Harrison Wells. The corner of his mouth turns up in a wicked grin, already knowing he's forgiven for tonight's scare. "And I've never sang in my sleep, either." In order to ignore the heat on her face, the IT expert turns back to her things, using them as a distraction.

As she picks up her things to leave, Felicity is _sure_ she hears John mutter, "Lord, give me strength."


End file.
